Suffer the Children: Revised Edition
by Garbage and City Lights
Summary: The story of Micah's life after the Harvester exploded. Much better than the original copy, if I do say so myself... You don't have to read the first version to read this one, but it might be fun to compare. PG-13 for angst, violence, and language.
1. Author's Notes

Welcome to the revised version of my very first "Children of the Corn" fic, Suffer the Children.  
  
Why a rewrite, you ask?  
  
At the end of May last year I had first become infatuated with that dark-haired doll known as Micah, bringing me into the world of psychotic kids and... well, corn. By the time summer gym had rolled around (about mid-June) I was already deep in my first fanfic about what happened to Micah after the Harvester exploded and Garret Inc. had moved on. However, I hadn't even seen the whole movie (yes, secret's out!) and a lot of things I had to just guess or make up. Though it's been one of my most popular fics in this category, I feel I've grown a lot as a writer since then, and just re-reading it makes me cringe. There are so many things I wanted to change, and now I've taken action. Since my summer schedule is rather sluggish anyway, I'm taking on this new challenge of rewriting the entire story -- but don't worry. It will be the same basic story, only much more detailed; however, don't be too surprised if things are added, missing, or even changed. That's how my creative process works. (Side note -- Gabe will change too, but only slightly... yes, she is based on me, and like I said -- I've changed too. ^_^ But always for the better, of course.)  
  
I hope everyone enjoys this new version. As always, reviews are appreciated to death.  
  


**The necessary but irritating disclaimer:  
  
Everything that doesn't belong to Stephen King and Dimension Films belongs to me.  
Micah and Co. are property of the aforementioned owners.  
All lyrics are property of the credited bands/singers.  
**  



	2. Out Of The Darkness

_You could be right and I'll be real  
Honesty won't be a pain and you'll have to feel, 'cause I  
Don't need your approval to find my worth  
I've been trapped inside of my own mind  
Afraid to open my eyes to what I'd find  
I don't want to live like this anymore  
_ --from _Quasimodo _by Lifehouse  
  
He might as well have been dead.  
  
The monitor at his side beeped steadily (though sluggishly) and the IV in his arm constantly provided him with the necessary nutrients, but he never moved. He didn't do any of the things he used to do, the _normal _things -- he didn't move, or talk, or blink, or sigh, or eat, and in his own opinion that made him dead.  
  
His mind was all that he had to entertain him, but he didn't always care for the pictures it showed him. It was hard to tell what had actually happened and what was just a clever hallucination. He could remember his childhood and all that , of course; however, any recent memories were clouded over by a thick fog of confusion and regret. When his mind did indeed grasp upon an image that might have happened, he usually ended up trying to block it from memory again. God only knew what had gone on in the little town he barely even remembered being in.  
  
From time to time, he would see blood; he would see flames, frightened people, the pale faces of children, an empty street lined with shops, a harvest moon hanging thickly in the air, an evil-looking machine poised at the edge of a field, a building full of people clawing and screaming to get out. He never _heard _the screams, but he knew they were there. The memories were like silent movies, because all he could hear was what must have been going on wherever he actually was. Quiet voices, mumbles and whispers, a slow dripping sound, beeps of machines, clicks of pens and rustles of sheets. He wanted nothing more than to be able to just sit up and open his eyes, end the darkness that lingered and the memories that tormented and the whispers that taunted.   
  
But he couldn't.  
  
He might as well have been dead.  
  
And sometimes it hurt, oh how it hurt! His muscles and bones ached from no movement in who knew how long, but occasionally the hurt went deeper than that. Sometimes it was like something was burrowing in his head, drilling holes in his skull and digging into his brain. Sometimes the pain twisted his intestines into knots and made him want to beg for relief. And very rarely, it was in his chest; some deep and primeval pain, one that tore his heart to pieces -- that was the worst kind of hurt, and it wasn't even physical. It felt like regret. But what had he regretted doing?  
  
He lived in this darkness for eternity, it seemed, neither living nor dead.  
  
Then, suddenly, the twisted images of possible memories clashed in a terrible festival of blood and fire; faces he wasn't even sure he'd seen before spun by his mind's eye with frightening speed, buildings and fields he almost knew went up in flames. And then there was a voice, something he was almost sure wasn't actually touching his ears, but touching something deep within his mind.  
_  
You did this.  
  
_ Three words was all it said, but it said them again and again, an endless cycle of three little words:  
  
_You did this.  
  
_ The images flew by with dizzying momentum, bearing sights of dead bodies and destroyed homes. He screamed and cried and begged for it to stop, to make the memories go away and bring back blessed darkness, but the voice only continued to say the three words that he felt were slowly driving him insane.  
  
_You... did... this.  
  
_ And then, for seemingly no reason at all, everything stopped. The images disappeared with a mental snap and the voice finally faded to a whisper, which wasn't nearly as terrifying as before, though still unnerving. The darkness had come to calm everything, to make it all better -- but it was much brighter than he remembered.   
  
And it was then that Micah realized he had opened his eyes.  
  



End file.
